


The Sixth of January

by bayoublackjack



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Birthday Fluff, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, F/M, Male-Female Friendship, POV Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes and Bees, Sherlock Plays the Violin, Time Travel, Vortex Manipulator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-06
Updated: 2015-01-06
Packaged: 2018-03-06 08:08:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3127292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bayoublackjack/pseuds/bayoublackjack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes has never been the sentimental sort, but once a year he gives into the whims of a certain time traveler.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sixth of January

Sherlock Holmes had never been the sentimental sort.  He had no use for the ineptitudes to which ordinary people subjected themselves in observance of the annual event.  In fact, if not for his family’s insistence in his early years, he doubted that he would have ever deigned to indulge in such frivolity.

And yet, in recent years, he found that did not dread the day as much as he once did.  Perhaps, it was even conceivable that he had begun to look forward to it.  This year especially, he found himself being rather keen for the day to arrive.

It would be the first he’d spend truly alone since meeting John.  Not that John had ever known the significance.  Much like the many mundane holidays and lesser known observances, it passed by each year unceremoniously.  During the years he had been underground, he paid no heed to it all.  Instead, he focused on the task at hand.  After the day passed, he’d notice the obligatory text from Mycroft or, remarkably, a token from his perpetual admirer.

It was only by coincidence that their first meeting fell upon the very day in question.  To her, however, it was something else.  Destiny.  Kismet.  Or some other ridiculous synonym that people used to describe random events they erroneously believed to be preordained.  Nevertheless, Sherlock granted her the allowance.  For while she was perhaps the most infuriating person he had ever met, she was, in equal measure, the most intriguing.

He stood by the window, violin in hand and dressed in his best suit.  A sweet melody filled the air as his long, nimble fingers danced across strings in tandem with the gliding of his bow.  He paused on briefly to set the kettle to boil.  Then, as the clock ticked down the seconds to midnight and the tea sat warm in its pot, he resumed his song in anticipation of another.

When the clock struck midnight and calendar turned to the sixth of January, right on cue, he heard the click of her heels as she climbed the stairs to 221B.  Sherlock continued playing.  Only lowering his bow when she spoke.  She loved a dramatic entrance and as such, he had selected tonight’s piece with her in mind.

“Vltava?” she questioned from the doorway, voice light and amused.

“I thought it fitting.”

“I do so love it when you’re clever.”

“So always then?” he retorted as he set his violin aside.

“Well yes,” she conceded with a laugh.  She moved further into the room and sat in John’s chair while he poured the tea for the both of them.

“How are things with your Doctor?” he asked, not yet meeting the green eyes that so keenly watched him.

“He’s found himself a new companion,” she replied, taking the cup and saucer when he offered them to her.  “And yours?”

“Likewise.”

“It’s called marriage.”

“You would know better than me.”

She chuckled quietly.  “Don’t sulk, dear.  He may be my husband, but you’re still my boyfriend.”

Sherlock bristled at her words.  “You know I hate it when you call me that.”

“Thus the source of its appeal,” she teased.  “You’re pretty when you’re cross.”

“Isn’t it usually customary to be more agreeable on such an occasion?” Sherlock countered.  He settled into his chair with his own cup of tea and it was only now that he got a proper look at his guest.

Immaculately dressed as always, she wore a long black trench coat from under which the hem of a black dress peeked when she crossed her legs.  “You’re quite right,” she said, setting her tea on her lap and treating him to a bright smile.  Aesthetically speaking, it was perhaps her most notable feature save for the mass of wild, blond curls upon her head.  “Shall we get the pleasantries out of the way?”

“Might as well,” Sherlock replied while lifting his cup to his lips.

“Very well.”  Her smiled seemed to stretch all the way to her ears now.  “Happy birthday, sweetie!”

Sherlock sighed in exasperation.  “Are you satisfied now, Dr Song?”

“Not nearly!” River returned in her usual salacious manner.  “But such tasks better left to a more practiced hand.  Wouldn’t you say?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Besides, tonight is about satisfying  _you_ , my love.”

“Are you up to the task, Professor?”

“I haven’t fielded any complaints thus far.”

“Certainly none from me.”

“Because…”  River leaned forward in her seat.  “I know what you like.”

“And tonight’s offering?”

River sat back and lifted her tea once more.  “I thought I’d leave it up to you.”

“Giving up control?”  Sherlock regarded her with newfound interest.  “Trying something new are we, Melody?”

River smirked.  “Submission can be rather enjoyable with the right partner, William dear.”

“I’ll have to take your word for it.”  Sherlock flicked his hand dismissively.  “Back to the task at hand.”

“Yes, your present,” River said.  “Anywhere in time or space.  Where shall we go?”

“Somewhere new,” he said vaguely.

“New as in unfamiliar or recently created?”

“Unfamiliar,” he clarified.  “Never the same place twice.  Even the adventure you provide isn’t beyond tedium.”

“Shall we visit the future?”

“Will I get to retain my memories afterwards or do you plan on drugging me?”

“Drug an addict?  Even I’m not  _that_ reckless.”

“I find that hard to believe.”  He set his tea aside then steepled his hands under his chin and closed his eyes to think.

“Time is wasting.”

“Said the time traveller.”

Even with closed eyes, he could detect her smile.  “Touché.”

Sherlock’s mind sifted through the possibilities.  All of time and space.  Anywhere in the world.  Something new.  But what was there left to do and see?  They had travelled to the past and cracked the world’s greatest unsolved mysteries.  They sat in on debut performances history’s most celebrated classical composers.  They played apprentice to the likes of Lavoisier, Curie and Nobel.  The past had been done, in more ways than one.  The future was new and different.

“I want to go to the future,” he decided and fixed his blue eyes onto hers.

“I was born in the 52 nd Century, dear.   _Future_ is relative.  Care to be more specific?”

“Mine,” Sherlock said, lowering his hands and moved to stand.  “I want to see my future.”

“Crossing time streams is dangerous and foreknowledge…”

“Are you denying me my birthday request, River?” he asked, already pulling on his Belstaff and looping his scarf around his neck.

Tea pushed aside, River rose to her feet as well.  “If it means preventing a paradox, then I just might.”

“Then don’t create a paradox,” he retorted matter-of-factly.

River huffed.  “Very well.”  She walked over to him and looped her arm through his before reaching for her vortex manipulator.  “Hold on tight.”

Sherlock was never a fan of her chosen form of transportation, but he admittedly appreciated the speed and accuracy to which she got them wherever they were going.  When they arrived, he took in his surroundings.  It was a small farm.  They were definitely still in England and the weather told him it was still January.  One of the south-eastern coastal counties.  Chalk hills.  “The Sussex Downs?”

“Mmm,” River gave as response.

Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh.  She wouldn’t risk comprising his timeline for the sake of sating his curiosity.  Thankfully his deductions would provide him the answers she seemed determined to withhold.

They moved around the farm, arms still linked, coming at last upon a man and woman next to an apiary.  The woman, with her wild, blond curls, was easily recognisable.  It didn’t take much effort to deduce her companion’s identity.  Tall and thin, long fingers and a head of hair that was whiter and thinner.  The other River looped her arm through his just as this one held onto him now and with a quick press of a button they were gone.

“Where are you taking me?” Sherlock asked.

River grinned.  “Spoilers!”

Sherlock exhaled sharply through his nose.  “You’re insufferable.”

“I love you too, dear.”

“Is this my future then?  Beekeeping in Sussex?”

River shrugged.  “Everyone needs a retirement plan, dear.”

Sherlock pursed his lips but gave no further comment on the matter.  “Take me somewhere else,” he requested.

“My choice?”

“Submission is supposedly enjoyable,” Sherlock retorted.  “Thrill me.”

“With  _pleasure_ ,” River said and with another press of a button they were off.

She took him to the future again, an alien planet this time.  He easily solved the case of the assassinated queen and aided in the deposition of her usurper, earning himself their society’s equivalent of a knighthood for his efforts.  Once he grew tired of the ensuing revelry, River delivered him back to Baker Street only a minute after they had originally departed.  As soon as his feet hit the ground, Sherlock was already removing his scarf and coat.

“I should be going,” she told him.

“Same time next year?”  Sherlock asked as he picked up his still warm tea and took a sip.

Her curls bounced as she nodded.  “Naturally.”

“Till the next time, Dr Song.”

“Till the next time, Mr Holmes,” she repeated, poising her hand over the vortex manipulator to make her great escape.  “And Sherlock…”

“Hmm?”

“Enjoy the honey.”

Before he could comment, she disappeared with a wink.  Sherlock dismissed the action and returned to the windowsill and his violin, finding a jar of honey next to it.  He picked up the jar and turned over in his hands.  “Spoilers,” he thought aloud with a faint smirk as his older self came to the forefront of his mind.   He exchanged the jar for his violin and bow.  “Beekeeping,” he mused quietly then lifted his bow and proceeded to play the Flight of the Bumblebee.


End file.
